


The One Where Castiel Wishes Dean Had A Better Grasp of Anatomy

by stone_in_focus



Series: Sweat [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Human Castiel, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Third Person, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is only just beginning to realize how much he has to learn...and how little time there is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Castiel Wishes Dean Had A Better Grasp of Anatomy

Castiel learns that the human body has far too many crevices for bathing to be even remotely efficient.

Dean stands outside the bathroom door, shouting off terms that demonstrate a rather crude sense of anatomy at best and sends Castiel back into the shower to try again.

"What do you mean, ‘down there?’ Dean, I need you to be more specific!"

"Figure it out!"

The fourth time, Castiel insists he’s done.

"Jesus, Cas!" Dean seems startled as Castiel steps out. Perhaps he is upset with the faulty plumbing, seeing as a giant puddle of water has mysteriously leaked out onto the floor. "Dude, _towel._ Right behind you.”

Then he remembers Cupid. Ah, of course. Humans and their archaic notion of modesty.

He doesn’t remember the upwards twitch at the corner of Dean’s mouth, though.

"A little cold there, buddy?"

"I am. How did you know?"

"Just…get dried off, man. You really want back in, I’m not dragging a fucking wet dog along to the party."

Castiel glances down at his toes, pressing his lips together. He thinks about telling Dean that despite the restrictive and tedious nature of modern transportation, he walked, bused, and hitchhiked hundreds of miles just to get here. He thinks about telling Dean that “getting back in” is all he’s _ever_ really wanted. But Dean is already out the door, mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

And that’s when it finally dawns on Castiel: he can’t hear Dean anymore.

Now, he has to rely purely on traditional methods of conversation and body language, which is speculative even on good days. He once prided himself on knowing Dean’s exact “serious” expression, but after spending several consecutive days in the confines of the bunker with the Winchesters, he has come to realize that there are certain nuances of one’s countenance he has yet to discern. The slope in the brow, the pinch above the bridge of the nose, the flex in the jaw—very curious how the slightest fluctuation could mean something different entirely.

And this, Castiel decides, makes the human face beautiful.

Just how blind has he been all these years?

"Dude." Dean snaps his computer shut, effectively snapping Castiel out of his daze. "Would you stop with the staring already?"

Castiel bows his head and mutters an apology, although he considers pointing out how hypocritical the remark is. He knows he’s been under Dean’s watch ever since he arrived, and not necessarily for his own protection. Castiel cannot fault him for that, and still, there are fleeting moments where the attention is a pleasant awareness—welcome, even—but lately, the glances come across as more punitive than provocative. There’s a burning sensation in his cheeks and a dampness at the back of his neck when he tugs at his shirt collar. Suddenly, his clothes seem so very small. And wet.

Maybe this is what a child feels like.

He’s beginning to understand Sam better, who appears to sense something as he nods towards him. “You okay, Cas?”

"I think I need another shower."

Sometimes, he closes his eyes and pretends it washes away more than the sweat and the grime.

"Dean’s a little gun-shy right now; that’s all," Sam tells Castiel later, patting him on the shoulder. "Give it time."

While he appreciates the failed attempt of assurance, the thought leaves him with an unsettling weight. The average human lifespan is already one of brevity, and if history dictates anything, the survival odds for a mortal consorting with the Winchesters are even worse.

Castiel sees the way Dean still flinches when he picks up a blade.

What if there’s not enough time to make amends?


End file.
